floating in a tin can

The shadow that falls over him as he sits in the courtyard may make it seem like a cloud has passed over the sun, but should he look up he will find something considerably more solid.

Lee Shalit towers over most, at six and a half feet; even slouching, they can be hard to look at. Their pristine white jeans and silver jacket hardly help, nor the cloud of bleached white-blonde hair that hangs past their shoulders and catches the too-bright afternoon light. They look like a ghost in broad daylight.

"Did you write this?" they ask, a hand forward to offer one of his newsletters -- maybe the only one that didn't end up in the trash.

Painstakingly shy, but possessed of the face of an Eastern European supermodel -- the kind that doesn't get out of bed for less than 20 grand -- their reputation around campus as a heartbreaker has a lot to do with the string of boys (and some girls) that follow them around. And the raucous house parties they attend for the sole purpose of getting blackout drunk. The binge-drinking is a little less obvious, though there are rumours related to the full semester they took off last year. People say it was rehab.

They wait for an answer, posture slightly turned in.